


Quiet Love

by Batastic_Grayson



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable, Alfred is out of town, Breakfast, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Everyone Is Alive, Feel-good, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Kids are away, M/M, Married Life, Morning Sex, Reunions, Separations, SuperBat, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Watching Someone Sleep, Wayne Manor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batastic_Grayson/pseuds/Batastic_Grayson
Summary: Clark hasn't seen Bruce in three weeks, so he's willing to give just about anything to enjoy their reunion. Sleeping in until noon, a five star breakfast, and pajamas all day seem to be just the beginning.





	Quiet Love

**Author's Note:**

> A purely domestic one-shot full of fluff and squish and all things sweet! Enjoy:)
> 
> I do not own DC or their characters. I do own this story!

**Clark**

 

I was planning on getting up earlier. I fully intended to make us both breakfast in bed, maybe read the morning paper, catch an early shower…I intended to be productive today. What’s that saying—the early bird gets the worm? Usually, I would ascribe to that doctrine. Live and breathe and die by it. Bruce teases me endlessly about my “morning person” nature, and I always blame it on being raised by farmers.

But this morning…I don’t feel like getting up.

I’m not particularly tired, nor do I have anything I’m dreading in the coming hours. The fact of the matter is, Bruce has been on an off-world mission for three weeks. He returned last night in the wee hours, tucked himself into my side, and fell into a sleep like the dead. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I’m enjoying this moment too much. Rising would break whatever spell is cast over our bedroom and then we would have to resume our regular lives.  
So, I remain where I am.

The room is quiet. That kind of morning stillness that mimics the space between the strokes of a clock’s hand, like time itself is suspended in the ether. It’s eleven o’clock and the curtains are still drawn. The sun tries futilely to press past the dark drapes, and she only succeeds in sending fingers of light slanting across the floor and bedspread. It leaves us both cast in grey-purple hues, pressed together in the center of our mattress, blankets tangling at our toes. The grandfather clock in the hallway counts the time and I number our measured breaths.

Bruce feels like cool, cool water against my skin, as if he’s made of cold blades of grass or a crisp breeze. He feels like the cusp of fall under my hands. He’s curled into my stomach, nose pressed to my collarbone as he draws in soft breaths. His hair, wild and dark like midnight, tickles against my chin as he shifts closer, a heavy arm tensing over my hip to pull me in tighter. Bruce settles with a heavy sigh, breath hot against the hollow of my throat when he does. His posture falls lax again, and I imagine his brows unfurrow as he slips back into slumber.

I’m tempted to shift him back just so I can watch the play of dreams across his features, so I can admire him properly…but I don’t want to wake him. I don’t want to ruin this moment when it’s been so eagerly awaited.

I wait until the hand of the clock inches past noon before I decide to rouse him. Bruce is an active sleeper by nature, fluctuating between curling into a tiny ball and spreading like a starfish in the center of the bed. He’s currently shifted to drape over my stomach, one hand dangling up by my ear, the other curled under his chin. I opt for gentle the approach, and I begin toying with his hair.

I smile, letting myself enjoy the few moments of adorable shifting and grunting before he inevitably slivers open sandy eyes and peers up at me. He squints, grimaces, and then lowers his face back to my stomach with a groan. We sit like this for perhaps twenty minutes, both awake, both content to sit in the silence.

Bruce has begun tracing patterns on my chest with a finger, and it is a struggle not to squirm when he murmurs into the skin just above my belly button.

“What time is it?”

I sigh, winding a strand of his hair around my finger repetitively. “After noon.”

Bruce grunts. “S’too early.”

I scoff, “I let you sleep in plenty.”

He makes a sound of displeasure against my stomach, “I s’pose you’re expecting a thank you?”

I shrug, lifting a brow, “Hmm, maybe a little thank you. I’ve been awake since nine. I could’ve woken you up then.”

Eyes like rich seafoam flicker up to me, more awake now than before, and I catch the tip of a sleepy smile when he hums. “Oh, well in that case.”

It’s not much of a surprise when he shifts and presses his lips to my stomach. Bruce is never one to pass up an opportunity to have his way with me, especially not after a lengthy separation, and I’m certainly not one to complain. I let him work his way up my stomach slowly, let him trail his lips along my abdomen and collarbones, peppering tiny kisses against my skin. I don’t protest when he lingers at the hollow of my throat, and his hands start to pluck at my waistband.

I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.

Being with him is always a bit like sinking into a warm bath. It scalds my skin at first, makes every nerve ignite with fire, but gradually it shifts and changes. The fire begins to be something of a low burn, surrounding us on all sides and leading us deeper. It mutes the world around us, covers our ears and eyes, makes everything soft and hazy and warm.

By the time he reaches my jawline and begins nibbling on me like I’m something to eat, I’m squirming and starting to sweat in earnest.

Bruce pulls back from me for a brief moment, looking every bit the predator when he eyes me and offers a wicked grin. “Miss me?”

I don’t have to answer before he’s pulling me back under the metaphorical water. We sink into each other with renewed hunger, and it’s not hard to tell that we’ve been separated for a few weeks. Our joining is brief and tender and practiced. It’s a dance we’ve rehearsed a thousand times before, and yet the passion of it still somehow manages to surprise me every time.

When we’ve finished our tryst and the sheets are on the floor and the room has emptied of sound again, we lay in the stillness for a few moments. I let my hands brush over his skin feathered with scars and he occupies himself toying with my hair. It’s a quiet moment of reacquainting our hands with each other, like they’ve forgotten somehow in the spans of three weeks.

But really, nothing has changed. He still feels like ocean water and smells like fresh earth. He still tastes like mouthwash and cinnamon gum. He’s still mine. Still here. Still home.

We rise when the clock passes the hour again, and we pretend it’s early yet when we slide on fresh pajamas and slippers. I leave Bruce upstairs to finish brushing his teeth, and I pad down to the kitchen quietly. The house is empty today. The boys are on a research mission in Cuba and Alfred took the weekend to visit a cousin in Leeds.

It leaves us with the run of the manor, and I have every intention of using it.

I begin making a very late breakfast, strawberry pancakes and eggs, bacon and hash browns. By the time I hear Bruce wander into the kitchen, it’s beginning to smell like a proper diner.

Bruce puts on a pot of coffee quietly, looking every bit the wealthy philanthropist in his black robe and pinstripe pajama bottoms. When he lingers at my back and winds his arms around my middle, he smells like toothpaste and fresh aftershave.

He hums at my back, resting his head on my shoulder to peer down at the spread. I can tell by his abrupt chuckle that he’s surveying the mess I’ve made of the countertop. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute, because your organization skills are certainly not winning you any trophies.”

I scoff, “What’s wrong with my organization skills?”

I feel more than see him raise an eyebrow, one arm unwinding around my stomach to gesture at the explosion of ingredients littering the countertop. To be fair, he’s not entirely wrong. I’ve never been an organized cook, and I certainly don’t follow recipes to a tee exactly…but what I do make, however messy, is absolutely delicious.

“Look at this mess! How can you stand it?” I splash a bit of vanilla extract into the pancake batter, and Bruce shakes his head with a rueful sigh, “Are you even measuring anything?”

I set the spatula down, turning in his arms to level him with an arched brow. “I cook how I cook. Usually, no one complains.”

Bruce purses his lips and then smirks, “Well, I’m complaining. Why don’t you just follow the recipe, like a normal person? Or clean up as you go? Alfred would have a stroke if he saw this.”

I laugh openly, imagining Alfred’s conniption fit were he to witness the heresy occurring here in his kitchen. The old butler is a stickler for cleanliness and I would not be above his wrath.

I lift a brow, “Well you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

Bruce grunts and leans around me, eyeing the sprinkles of flour and discarded wrappers littering the counter, “It’s just stressful to watch you fiddle over here in this chaos.”

I press a pert kiss to his lips before he can pull away from me, smiling smugly when I turn back to the stove. “Then close your eyes.”

Bruce laughs at that, pressing an answering kiss to my neck before he’s striding away to the coffee pot. He pours us both a mug, fixing mine up with copious amounts of sugar and cream. He takes his black, sipping it with a grimace that he swears means it’s good. I doubt he’d admit it, but I’ve caught him sipping my coffee with a far less unpleasant expression.

But…he’s a creature of habit, and I love him for it.

He lingers near me as I cook, leaning against the countertop to watch me over the rim of his mug. When I finally get around to the pancakes and I have a moment to let them sit and brown, I accept my coffee and begin sipping it delicately.

We talk about the mission off-world and the three weeks he was gone when I was covering peace accords for the Planet. We discuss our upcoming anniversary and what we’ll do for Dick on his birthday a couple weeks from now. We say everything and nothing, all at once. And occasionally, we steal tiny moments of silence, where we sit and revel in each other’s presence.

It’s a quiet kind of love, the kind that’s built of warm iron and soil, that I feel humming between us. I feel it when we eat in silence with the birds singing outside the kitchen window. I feel it when we spend the rest of the day in our pajamas, enjoying the weather through open panes. I feel it in the quiet moments later that night, when it’s just velvet darkness and breath.

It’s a quiet love. Broken and strange and perhaps unexpected, but it’s strong. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.


End file.
